


those men with the highway in their eyes

by displayheartcode



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic, Sparrow Hill Road - Seanan McGuire
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Witch Neil Josten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23279623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/displayheartcode/pseuds/displayheartcode
Summary: Neil is running from the crossroads. Lucky for him, he's about to get help.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	those men with the highway in their eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, this is a fusion with Seanan McGuire’s Ghost Roads books, but it’s hopefully understandable without the need to read them. 
> 
> The title is from one of the in-universe songs.

Neil felt the road beneath his crappy car thrum with power. He knew it was there, that extra sense telling him was far he was running, the whispers in the back of his mind telling him to keep going and not look back. The pavement and gravel were older than him. It carried stories about route-witches like himself trusting themselves to a power few understood, and others wanted.

 _Homecomer, hitcher, phantom rider…_ Neil’s mom once sang to him as she wove charms in the air. The prayer beneath the words to Our Lady of the Overpass to protect them from his father’s crossroad deals. Nursery rhymes and children's songs were powerful tools on the road they traveled. Information was currency among witches and the creatures who walked the Ghost Roads. _…white lady wants what’s been denied her, gather-grim knows what you fear the most, but best keep away from the crossroads ghost…_

The engine spluttered without any warning. The radio speakers died with a raspy hiss and Neil cursed as he rolled the car to a sudden stop into a grassy bank.

 _What gives?_ he asked the road. He reached inside his glove compartment for his pack of cigarettes. He twirled an unlit cigarette between his fingers, itching for a smoke while he looked out the window and saw the empty, dark stretch of the road. There were few signs of life here, black locust trees wind-bitten, only starlight trying to reach through the heavy layer of clouds, the taste of oil motor and blood in the humid air.

But there was a diner just around the curve. The haze of neon lights around the old lettering, _The Foxhole_ , instantly brought back memories of greasy burgers slippery with ketchup and onions and the heavy milkshakes so thick he needed a spoon _. Sanctuary, sanctuary_ , his childhood called out.

Neil knew this wasn’t a coincidence.

Once he stepped on the road, he felt it nudge him toward the diner.

He grabbed his duffle bag from the back and slipped the strap over a shoulder. He then looked over his shoulders where storm-clouds gathered above the trees, the pressing darkness threatening to swallow his world whole. Somewhere out in the distance, he knew his father’s ghost was searching for him. The bargains had been made and his only hope was to run as far as the road would let him. There was no telling what fate waited for him under his father’s knives.

Even a dead man could give out vengeance from beyond his shallow grave.

 _Talk to the poltergeist, talk to the haunt_. Neil flicked his lighter and watched the end of his cigarette turn cherry-red. _Talk to the route-witch if it’s what you want._

With a grim expression more fitting for the dead, he marched up the road and through the empty parking lot, to the diner’s front door where a neat sign told him it was a cash-only establishment.

Neil felt the ghosts on the other side of the door. _Reaper’s in the parlor, seizer’s in a host…_ The old road beneath his feet hummed as he pushed the door open. He side-stepped from the land of the living and into the twilight where all lost things dwelled. _But you’d best keep away from the crossroads ghost._

It was orange.

It took Neil a moment to see the interior of The Foxhole. Orange-and-white patterned tiled floor scuffed with shoe-prints of all types, bar stools with faded orange leather, the walls papered with yellowed newspapers and signed black-and-white pictures of the long dead. He could smell the greasy welcoming of fries and onion rings.

“Hey, traveler,” a voice said beside him. There was a girl around his age, pastel-pink hair framed a sharp face. She was holding a notepad and she tapped her boot to get his attention. Her name-tag read Renee. “Table for one?”

Neil nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. 

Renee scribbled something on her notepad. “And for your ghosts?”

Neil stared at her.

“Sorry,” she said, a corner of her mouth turned upwards. “The joke’s an occupational hazard. Ah, yes. You have someone waiting for you.” She directed him to a booth in the back, near the jukebox that was crooning a soft rock melody from well before his time.

The person waiting for him in the booth had already ordered. He had a thin face and shrewd hazel eyes, black wristbands that went from wrist to elbow casually propped up on the table next to a plate of fries.

He looked over Neil with a mild expression, but he gave Renee a nod.

“Have fun talking business,” Rene said. “And don’t kill him just yet, Andrew.”

She left them alone and Neil finally spoke.

“What the _fuck?”_

“Nathanial,” Andrew said, ignoring the outburst. He gestured for Neil to sit. “Have you ever wanted to defeat the crossroads?”


End file.
